Only the Wicked (21 page)

“She'd rather he jump her,” the one with the mascara snorted. Big Glasses giggled and the one who had opened the door slapped her friend on the arm.

Monk asked, “How about Harvey Lyle, the numbers man who sponsored the All-Stars with your husband? He and Kennesaw ever have a run-in?”

Clara Antony considered his question. “Yeah, probably, but who didn't with someone so foul tempered as Lyle?” She flicked her hand at the woman in blue eyeliner across from her. ‘“Course Gloria here had a thing for him, didn't you Glo-glo?”

“Careful,” she advised. She turned her eyes on Monk. “Harvey had at least two sons I knew of.” She played clubs.

“They grow into their old man's business?”

“One went back east, Boston I think, he's legitimate, works for a sportswear manufacturer, I believe. And the other, Trent, he was involved in some shady stuff.” She looked at the others to fill in. The homeowner raised an index finger and spoke.

“Trent wound up involved in drugs, no surprise there. I hear he's been in and out of jail several times.”

“Anybody know what firm the one back in Boston works for?” Monk asked.

“Oh, now, why would Stewart be a suspect, what would he be after?” Clara Antony continued to move her cards around on the table in circular motions.

“Maybe Lyle and Kennesaw had some deal going back then,” Monk said. “Something behind your husband's back.”

“And the son is out to collect?” one of the women suggested.

“Can anybody find out for sure where Stewart is?” The women's hesitation was apparent. “I just want to close all unnecessary doors.”

Eyeliner looked at her friends, then said, “I can find out. But I'd want to talk to him first. Give me your card and I'll have him call you.”

“He's going to be out of town,” Clara Antony reminded her.

“My office will forward the information to me.” Monk got up and handed her one of his cards. He remained standing.

“Why don't you ask him to put his home number on it, Glo?” the one in the glasses goaded her.

Glo showed horseteeth and tucked the card away in a clutch bag at her feet.

“I appreciate your time, ladies, especially yours, Clara.”

“I hope you find this nut, whoever he is, Ivan.”

He said his goodbyes and wound his way back down to La Brea and headed north. The sky was uncustomarily clear and the San Gabriel mountains stood out sharp and bold beyond the high-rises of downtown.

Monk had a chicken omelet and fries for lunch at Roscoe's House of Chicken and Waffles on Pico. Afterward, he headed north again. He had an appointment with Bernie Desconso, the lawyer who'd been involved in Creel's appeals for the last twenty years. He knew Desconso, a gregarious man, slightly, having met him once at a garden party his own lawyer, Parren Teague, had given. He'd also run into him at some National Lawyer's Guild dinner or ACLU fund-raiser that Kodama had dragged him to over the years. Desconso was a partner in a law firm that had offices in the Equitable Building on Wilshire near Normandie.

He was standing and staring at a Basquiat print in the men's waiting room when Desconso came out to greet him.

“Ivan, long time no see, man. Come on back.” Desconso shook his hand, clasping his left one over the top like a ward healer on his rounds. He was in rolled-up shirt sleeves and tailored slacks. His longish hair was fast receding from his unwrinkled brow, and his waistline was trimmer than Monk remembered.

“You been working out,” he commented.

Desconso touched his head. “If I can't keep this, might as well lose the other. Hell, it's been five years since the divorce, might as well get in a few more innings until I need Viagra. How's Jill?”

“Busy.” He was going to go on about them talking about having children, but decided against elaborating, that maybe telling him would jinx the possibility.

They sat in a corner office furnished in sterile modern. The personal touches were the photos of Descanso's teenaged children on his desk in Plexiglas holders. Behind his chair, the vertical blinds had been drawn back to reveal a view to the west.

Monk filled him in on his investigation.

Desconso whistled. “I wouldn't doubt that the Southern Citizens League was behind the attack on your mother, Ivan. I'll maintain ‘til the day I die their reach has been far more insidious, far deeper than anything they revealed in the files they released or the so-called in-depth pieces on them the news magazine shows have done.”

“They've officially disbanded,” Monk ventured.

“And the CIA never partnered with drug dealers,” Desconso countered derisively.

Monk held up his hands like he was under arrest. “I'm with you, brother. I faxed you that list I got from N'Kobari Embara of some of the folks who've been involved in Creel's defense committee. Any one of them in particular you think I should talk to before I get down there? Or anybody else you can think of?”

“Yeah, I gave that some thought. None of them jumped out at me. But there was this one woman we came across during one of our appeals. She'd been Ava Green's roommate that first semester at Brandeis.”

“You never deposed her?”

“No,” Desconso was looking for something in the piles of files and notepads on his desk. “One of my investigators talked to her, and it turned out she'd had to come back home at the end of that semester; out here to LaCanada-Flintridge, actually.” He pointed north while still searching his desk. “Her mother had taken ill, and she was needed back home to help care for her.” Desconso found a torn half sheet of paper. “Here's the note I made to myself.” He held the sheet aloft quickly, then read it. “Helena Jones is her name. See, she never did get back to Brandeis or join Green in Damon's campaign. So really, for our purposes, she could offer nothing of value.” He handed the note across to Monk.

He stared at what passed for Desconso's handwriting. “Why do you think I should talk to her?”

Desconso made a face. “You asked for others, she's an other. That's an old address and phone, the family's house.”

“Can you set it up so I can see Creel when I'm down there?” He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

“Sure, we'll tell the prison authorities you're working for us.” Desconso stared at him evenly, leaning back in his chair. “Now if I get you in to see Damon, I hope you'll share anything relevant should you uncover something.”

“Sure, Bernie, why wouldn't I?”

Desconso's brows went up. “I've been convinced of Damon Creel's innocence since the second day I became involved in his case. Some nights I can't sleep right because I know that this country has cavalierly and repeatedly locked black men like Damon Creel away for what they stood for, what they tried to do. He is a political prisoner in a class and race war that's been going on since the first Pilgrims arrived, and the rock Malcolm talked about landed on the Indians.”

Monk was uncomfortable. “You want me to be a true believer, Bernie?”

“I don't know the relationship you had with your cousin. I heard from an attorney at the courthouse the other day about his poisoning before you phoned me.”

“And you know he had a snitch jacket,” Monk leveled. “I won't hold out on you, man.” A pigeon flitted past the large window, settled on the ledge and pecked at something as the two men stared at each other.

Desconso rose and they shook hands again. “The best huh?”

“Thanks.”

Monk talked with several people on the list Embara had given him over the next two days. One was a woman named Reily who, along with her husband, owned a print shop in Culver City. She related that she still believed in Creel's innocence, but what with the kids and the business, her activist life was severely curtailed. Another committee member named Franks was a practicing Buddhist, but his striving for inner balance didn't temper his bitter feelings that he felt he'd been taken in by the Creel Defense Committee.

“I'd be interested in knowing why,” Monk remarked. He stood next to Franks in the art gallery/bookstore/coffeeshop the latter owned in a shopping mall near King Harbor in Redondo Beach.

Franks regarded Monk for several moments before speaking. “Let me put it this way, Mr. Monk. I think Damon Creel is the biggest fraud to come along since the three-dollar-bill. He's a self-aggrandizer, an egotist who only wanted to advance his book deals, and of course, nail some college-educated pussy.”

“Tough words from a man into brown rice and inner peace. So you think he murdered those girls?”

Franks shifted on his feet, lightly touching the frame on a Betye Saar assemblage. “I know he was bopping one of them at least, probably both.”

Monk enunciated, “Do you think he murdered them?”

“I do,” Franks said softly. “I think he did it because Ava Green was going to expose him for the fake he is, and I think things got out of hand.” Franks' eyes bore into Monk's, daring him to question his judgement. “I think people like Creel used good-hearted white liberals like me. And too many of his brethren are still doing it today rather than getting on with their lives.”

“Don't a lot of us come up short, Mr. Franks? Does that mean Creel's goals are less worthy?”

Franks snorted. “Figures you'd defend him.”

Monk was getting worked up but decided to let his irritation at this man simmer. It wasn't as if he wasn't ambiguous about Creel's guilt or innocence himself. And Franks had been through the experience of being on the defense committee, not him. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Franks.” He started to leave.

“Hey,” Franks called to him as Monk made the doorway. “If you find out something when you're down there, let me know, okay?”

“Why?” he asked, not looking around.

“Maybe you'll restore my faith.”

“I look forward to it.”

The next day, the day before he was to leave for Mississippi, he had a talk with Helena Jones. They had agreed to meet for lunch at the Koo-Koo-Roo on Santa Monica Boulevard in the City of West Hollywood. Jones was a professor of urban planning at UCLA, and worked part-time as a consultant for the small city of gays and Russian emigrants.

She was on the lean side, her upper body defined in angular lines with a full bosom. Her face broadcast her Slavic origins, and her smile was infectious. Jones wore dark wool pants and a satiny purple shirt with shiny black buttons. Gray was edging its way into the roots of her auburn hair.

“So you and Ava talked over the phone from time to time when she and Sharon Aikens were down there working on the campaign?” Monk ate a forkful of creamed spinach.

“Yes, that's right,” she said, using her fingers to pick up her skinless chicken drumstick.

“I've talked to several people who used to be active in the defense committee,” Monk continued. “And I've been told that it was Ava who was big on going down to Memphis that summer. Why was that, a kid who grew up in Scarsdale?”

“It was an adventure,” she said lightly. “And she was a young woman with her own mind looking to make her mark.” She chewed with vigor.

“She wanted to change the world and herself at the same time,” Monk empathized.

“You gotta remember Herbert Marcuse had been a big influence on the campus then. His classes were always packed. And him being a mentor to Angela Davis only increased the allure of his writings. Hell, in those days, Brandeis was considered Berkeley East, for goodness sake. All the smart young women had the desires Ava expressed before the onset of kids, and arguments over bullshit at three in the morning with your husband.” She appraised him. “You married, Ivan?”

He'd noticed the band on her finger. “I live with my”—he worked his hands—“well, whatever the word is these days.”

“Children?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you better get on it, huh?”

“How about yours?”

“Thirteen and ten. And you don't know what it's all about until those teen years hit, baby.” She had some of her coleslaw, her eyes gleaming mischievously.

“When was the last time you'd talked to Ava?”

“About a week before she was killed.” She must have said those same words several times over the years, but there was still emotion behind the repetition.

“You think Creel did it?”

“Which case you trying to solve?” She pulled the straw out of her glass and gulped down her soda. She wiped at her mouth with a paper napkin.

“Did I hesitate too long in my answer?” Monk smiled.

“What else you want to know about Ava?”

“She ever mention that Creel was knocking her around, being abusive?”

“No,” Jones opened her purse, looked inside, then closed it decidedly. “She knew enough to know it wasn't Donna Reed time, dig? But he cared for her, was respectful and talked about strategy with her. She wasn't just his squeeze.”

He halted his fork midway to his mouth. “Any mention of threesomes?”

“Uh-uh, no way with Ava, see?”

“You ever meet her folks?”

“No. We'd talked about me going out with her to Scarsdale, but I had to go home that January, and see about my ailing mother.”

“That was the last you two actually saw each other?”

“Yes.”

“You wouldn't have an old number for her folks? And remember their names?”

Jones made a motion with her fork like a conductor. “Oh, God, that's been so long. But I think they're still there.” She frowned, “Or maybe at least the father; seems I heard somehow they'd had a divorce. I don't recall his name, his first name, I mean. But I think the mother's name was Allison or something like that.” She ate some more, then said, “Hey, what kind of detective can't use the phone book?”

“I'm lazy.”

“Like hell.”

He grinned again. “I did call some Greens in upstate New York. People who've been bothered over the years by reporters and such. But no parent of Ava, at least no one who would admit that over the phone.”